


Ladies Who Lunch

by fictorium



Category: West Wing
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-06
Updated: 2012-05-06
Packaged: 2017-11-04 22:34:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/398948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictorium/pseuds/fictorium





	Ladies Who Lunch

Donna Moss, it turns out, is not that easy to shake off.

 

Ainsley is actually starting to enjoy the relative peace of her office, treating the clunks and whirrs of the air-conditioning vents as a kind of backing track to the stacks upon stacks of briefs that she wades through, trusty pen in hand. 

 

It was a graduation present from her godfather, and she purchases the refills in bulk, determined to never use another pen if she can help it. It reminds her of times when she felt sure, of a sunny day in Cambridge with everyone she loved around her. 

 

But Donna Moss, with her office-provided pens and her constant chatter, seems intent on not forgetting that Ainsley is rotting away in the basement. Donna shows up maybe twice a week, going five minutes out of her way to see if Ainsley, too, would like a salad from The Place. Usually Ainsley declines, having brought lunch with her or planning to eat out with friends that actually might start to forget her if she doesn't make the effort. But whether it's Donna's persistence or just that some days she's hungry enough for a little more food, Ainsley finally says yes.

 

That, it turns out, is just the first step in the Donna Moss Plan. It's not quite the Monroe Doctrine, but it's certainly pretty effective. Ainsley finds herself drawn out of her office altogether at the prospect of salad eaten outside, on a warm spring day. 

 

"It's nice, right?" Donna asks, and Ainsley relaxes, spearing the chicken in her salad with the plastic fork.

 

"It is," Ainsley agrees. "Thank you."

 

And somehow, that's how the dam breaks. Ainsley starts viewing her colleagues upstairs--C.J., and Sam and maybe some day Josh and Toby--as potential friends, and not just political opponents who happen to need her aptitude for a well-drafted argument.

 

***

 

Ainsley’s watching the new gaggle of interns as they huddle around the coffee machine. Like everyone else, she’s keeping tabs on who’ll be the first to break the pact, to wade in knee-deep into the waters of the White House and make themselves genuinely useful. Those are the ones who’ll end up working here for real someday.

 

There’s a tap at her shoulder, and Ainsley turns to see Donna standing there, briefcase in one hand and coffee mug in the other. 

 

“Watch out for the redhead,” Donna says, with a nod towards the interns. “Otto gave me pretty good odds.”

 

“Oh, I’m not betting,” Ainsley says, and she doesn’t mention that this is yet another administration where nobody quite trusts the Republican in their foxhole yet. She thinks of Leo in that moment, misses his steady hand and his wisdom. “But I’m pulling for the guy with the hair, personally.”

 

“Oh, he’ll be the first to get fired,” Donna says conspiratorially. “He has that look about him. Like he’d put moose meat on eBay, you know?”

 

“I really don’t,” Ainsley says, perplexed. “Did the First Lady need something?”

 

“Oh, no,” Donna clarifies, shaking her head and making her new, shorter hair fall in her face. “I came to invite you to lunch.”

 

“That’s so sweet of you,” Ainsley says, ready to decline because she has a stack of work still waiting and she’s been in since six. She tries to say yes at least once a month, but the demands on her time are much greater now than when she was an assistant.

 

“C.J.’s in town,” Donna hastily interrupts. “So you can’t beg off with work. She wants to hear all about Sam.”

 

“There’s nothing to hear about,” Ainsley mutters, not meeting Donna’s eye.

 

“Sure. But he’s down a fiancée and you’re suddenly not available for drinks anymore,” Donna accuses, dropping her briefcase to fiddle with her Blackberry. “Seriously. Lunch.”

 

“When did you get so bossy, Donna?” Ainsley asks, holding back a laugh. “I swear, I feel more compelled to say yes to you than I ever do to Josh.”

 

“I’ve always been this bossy,” Donna points out, picking up her bag and turning towards the hallway. “It’s just now I have more to back it up with.”

 

***

 

“Ainsley!” C.J. greets her with genuine warmth as Ainsley and Donna arrive at their table (she’s still getting used to the fact that they always get the best--or as good as--almost everywhere in town).

 

“Hi,” Ainsley says, accepting the hug and hearing her drawl spin out on the ‘i’. Something about C.J., even now, makes Ainsley feel a little like she’s back in Charlotte, twirling one of the batons Sam still likes to tease her about. 

 

“How long are you in town?” Ainsley asks as they take their seats, and she notes with a smile that there’s a bottle of white already on ice. “It’s been just forever since I saw you.”

 

“Just three days,” C.J. replies, flicking her phone onto silent. “Then I have a flight to Nairobi and well, I won’t bore you with the rest of it.”

 

“It’s never boring,” Ainsley corrects her, but then she’s distracted by the menu. A lot has changed since her last stint at the White House, but her love of good food has definitely not. “Is this the place that does the amazing sea bass?”

 

“You’re thinking of the other place,” Donna points out. “But they do that insanely good pasta here?”

 

“Ooh,” Ainsley says, basking in the laughter from Donna and C.J. “Now you’re talking.”

 

“Feeling the need for extra carbs?” C.J. asks, faux-innocent but with a twinkle in her eye. “I swear, if this administration doesn’t start giving me some decent gossip, I’m voting Republican in two years.”

 

“I tried that last time,” Ainsley says with a smirk. “Didn’t work then.”

 

“God, I forget that about you sometimes,” Donna chimes in. “Maybe it’s the lack of a tail, or horns, but I swear sometimes I could mistake you for a good old Carolina Democrat.”

 

Ainsley raises an eyebrow in disapproval. “Do I need to give you the talk about smaller government and lower taxes again? Or are you liberal hippies gonna let me have my fusilli in peace?”

 

“We surrender!” C.J. laughs, holding her hands up. “But as a tradeoff, you’re both gonna have to ‘awww’ over some kid pics, deal?”

 

“Sold,” Ainsley says, waving the waiter over. It’s going to be the best lunch for a long time.


End file.
